Published: 4 Nov 2024.
by Gerry Gaffney
This story contains swearing.
"I can't do an elegy," says Jimmy.
'Eulogy,' says Christopher.
"Whatever. I can't do it."
"Why not?"
"I can't stand up in front of whole crowd of people and talk."
Jimmy sounds panicky.
"Then don't."
"Mary and Tim says I have to because I'm the oldest."
"Yeah, that's probably right. But they can't force you, you can tell them to fuck off."
Jimmy looks thoughtful, then doubtful.
"Ah I don't think I could do that, it wouldn't be right. Not when their father just died."
"He was your father too."
"Yeah, I know that, but you know what I mean."
"Nobody likes talking in front of people," says Christopher.
"What about politicians, priests, TikTokers...?"
"That's different. In real life, normal people don't like public speaking. It's a well-known fact. Most people say they'd rather poke their own eyes out with a fork than make a speech in public."
"Well, I wouldn't go that far."
"There you go, so, you're ahead of most people already."
"You know I can't do a speech. Remember even at school?"
Christopher laughs.
"That time you had to do the thing on the solar system and you couldn't remember the name of planet Earth. Jesus you were sweating buckets, I remember it well." He laughs some more.
Jimmy looks morose.
"That's what I mean, I'd probably forget who was dead and what I was doing there up on the stage."
"Altar."
"Whatever."
"Listen," says Christopher, "Alison did a Toastmasters thing, you know where you have to crap on about something for ten minutes and then everyone tells you how shite you were and how to be better next time."
"That sounds weird."
"Yeah, it does. It's mostly people who need to talk for work stuff, you know, do presentations or whatever. But Alison reckons it works."
"Are you saying Alison has to talk in front of people? I thought she worked in the bakery. Are we talking about your sister Alison or someone else?"
"Yeah, sister. She doesn't always want to be stuck in the bakery, you know? Some people have ambition. They want to better themselves, move up in the world. Maybe you should give it a try."
Christopher sounds a bit annoyed.
"All right, don't give me a hard time. My father just died."
"It's not as if you liked him very much."
"I suppose not. But he's still my Dad. Was."
"How long did it take Alison to get good at talking?"
"I don't know, she went to the sessions for about 6 months."
"Well that's fuck-all use, so, the funeral's on Thursday."
"Don't be so negative. Listen, I'll call Alison and ask if she has any advice. Like a crash-course. Sorry, didn't mean to say crash."
"That's okay."
Christopher pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls.
"Al," he says, "how's it going? Hey , you remember Jimmy? Yeah, that one. His old man died and he has to make a speech but he's in a panic because he's afraid of public speaking."
"I'm not afraid," Jimmy calls out.
"No, he's not afraid," says Christopher, "he's terrified. Trembling here he is even thinking about it. Hey, you know that Toastmasters, that was good you said, right? Any chance you could give Jimmy some help to get ready to do this eulogy?"
There's a pause while Christopher listens.
"Thursday," he says.
Jimmy can hear something that sounds like Alison laughing. Christopher turns his head away to try to stop him hearing.
"He'll give you 50 quid," he says. A pause. "Okay, grand, see you around 6 at your gaff."
He ends the call.
"50 euro!" says Jimmy, "I'm not going to pay 50 euro for your snotty sister to teach me how to talk."
"Okay, grand, I'll cancel her."
Christopher picks up his phone again.
"No, no, wait. Wait, let me think."
"You don't have time for thinking," says Christopher. "Are we on or not?"
"Yeah, I suppose."
***
"Jimmy. Sorry for your loss," says Alison.
She has the kettle on.
"Tea?" she asks.
"Have you anything stronger?" asks Jimmy.
"I have of course, but this is not the time for it. You have your work cut out for you and getting scuttered won't help you."
Jimmy reckons she sounds up herself but he says nothing. Accepts the tea when it comes.
He takes a drink and makes a face.
"Thanks," he says, reluctantly.
Alison takes control.
"A eulogy," she tells them, "is usually only around five minutes or so. You can make it longer if you have a lot to say, but not much longer. So when you think about it, that's not a whole lot of time."
"That's good," says Jimmy. He looks relieved.
"You have two things to worry about. First is what you want to say. And second is how you do it. The second bit is what most people find tricky. They um and ah and they trip over themselves. There's a few tricks that are easy to learn, like standing up straight, looking at different people in the crowd, speaking slowly, controlling your breathing. And of course practising as much as you can."
"I think you should think about what you want to say about your Dad. Tell us, and I'll take notes."
She looks at Jimmy, pen poised.
He stares at the table. "I dunno."
"Was he a good Dad?"
"Yeah, I suppose."
There's a silence, but Jimmy has nothing to add.
"Do you have any stories about him?"
"Like, funny stories?"
"Funny, or emotional, or interesting. Things he did that you often remember or that make you laugh."
"One time he hit Mam," says Jimmy.
"Not sure if that's something you want to talk about at his funeral," says Alison, "but go on."
"I only barely remember it, so Mary and Tim wouldn't, they'd be too young. They know about it though because Mam and Dad used to tell the story sometimes. Mostly Mam.
"I don't know what they were arguing about. Or fighting about. I don't remember them arguing much. Mam was always a good one for the silent treatment. If she was annoyed with him she'd just act like he wasn't there. Get us to tell him stuff. You know, like 'Jimmy, tell your father he needs to pay the electric.' And I'd turn to Dad and tell him even though he was sitting there at the end of the table. Stupid stuff like that. But they got on pretty well I think.
"Anyway, this one time I don't know what happened but there was a major barney. Probably about money. I don't remember the lead up or anything, just when Dad slapped her on the face."
He mimes the movement with flat of his hand.
"Jesus," says Alison, "what did your mother do?"
Jimmy starts to laugh. "She broke his fucking nose," he says. "One good solid punch to the face. It made an awful noise and then there was blood everywhere. She threw a tea-towel to him and walked off. I'm not sure what happened then, probably Dad had to go to the hospital."
"And did he do anything else to your Mam?"
"Yeah. He said he was sorry." Jimmy laughs. "I remember later, must have been the same day, him standing there in front of us kids. He had a big bandage over his nose and he says 'I'm sorry Bernice. There's no excuse for it. I never hit a woman before in my life and I never will again.' And she just looked at him and laughed. 'I'm sure you won't, look at the state of you now!' And the two of them just laughing as if it was the most hilarious thing ever. But he never did hit anyone that I know of any other time, her or us kids."
"That's a nice story," says Alison. "And you see, you are able to talk in front of people. You just did it with me and Christopher. But I'm not sure that particular story is suitable for the eulogy. Do you have any others? Stories or memories about him that stand out?"
"You know," says Jimmy, "he was always promising to take us to France on holidays. But we never had no money. One summer holidays he packed us all into the old Cortina and we drove to France. Well he told us it was France but it was actually Dingle, you know, down in Kerry."
Alison and Christopher are laughing.
"Did you not notice you didn't cross the sea?"
"We were on a little ferry for a bit but it did seem very short."
"That'd be the ferry from Killimer across the mouth of the Shannon. You must have been a very thick kid," says Christopher.
"What did ye do when you found out?" asks Alison.
"Sure we never found out. At least I didn't. I only realised it a few months ago when Helen Atkins posted photos of her holidays. I recognised the streets and the colourful shops so I pinged her to ask something about what she was doing in France and Helen said 'I'm not in France I'm in Dingle.' And I did a photo search online and realised Dad lied to us. Dingle! I was fuming. I went around to the house that evening and I yelled at him about lying to us and all he said was 'Sure didn't you have a great time there, in France? A great holiday, you talked about it for months after.'"
"That could be a good one for the eulogy," laughs Alison, "it shows that he cared about you and that he had a sense of humour and it says something about the fact that times were hard. What else have you got?"
Soon Jimmy has more than enough material.
Alison helps him pick the best bits, the ones that are emotional or amusing.
Then she shows him how to use index cards.
"So you won't just be reading, because if you read you're not looking at people and it sounds awkward too.
"In France they call them aides-memoire. As you'd know from your Dingle holiday."
He mutters something.
Alison has him practise the eulogy. She stops him from time to time to remind him to make eye contact and to stop fidgeting and to stop saying 'um' and 'like' and 'you know'.
"Tomorrow, practise again in front of the mirror, and remember the tips I gave you for controlling your breathing and boosting you confidence."
As they leave Jimmy takes a 50 from his wallet and holds it out to pay her but she waves it away.
***
Before the funeral Jimmy stands outside the church. He's still nervous about his speech. People keep coming up and interrupting his train of thought.
He's dressed in a suit and tie. Like a drug lord or a real estate salesman.
"Isn't that a lovely little garden?" says old Tommy Madden, a neighbour from down the road, pointing at the flower patch outside of the church. Your Dad would have loved it, he loved gardening." Jimmy stares at him. When Tommy moves off Jimmy turns to his brother and sister.
"Did you hear that? That was total bollocks. I never saw the old man in the garden, did youse?"
"Once. Mam made him prune that old apple tree out the front," says Mary. "He did it under duress, there was a lot of moaning and complaining."
"Sure you wouldn't let him near a garden," says Tim, "he'd be pretty indiscriminate with the shears and the pesticides. Concrete was more his style."
They share a laugh, a moment together.
***
Jimmy walks up to the altar .
He puts his index cards on the lectern and looks up to face the people in the church, silent now before him.
Instantly his mind goes blank.
Copyright © Gerry Gaffney 2024